His hand is on my throat before I can draw breath.

Not choking—just holding. A warning. His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling it race beneath his touch, and his eyes are wild with something that looks like rage but smells like fear.

"What kind of game is this?" His voice is raw, shredded. "What are you?"

My back is flat against the brick. His body cages mine completely, and the mate bond screams between us—a living thing that claws at both our wolves, demanding we close the distance, demanding we stop fighting what the Moon Goddess made inevitable.

But he's not listening to his wolf anymore.

"Arian, please—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"No." He leans in closer, and I can see the moment his control shatters completely. "I know what you are. I've known since the moment you showed up in that fucking dress, playing innocent. You're a plant. A spy. That rich Lycan bastard who bought you ten years ago—he sent you here, didn't he? To infiltrate my pack. To destroy everything I've built."

The words hit like physical blows.

"What?" I breathe. "Arian, I never—"

"Don't." His grip tightens fractionally. "I saw you get into that Maybach. Ten years ago. The day before you were supposed to meet me. I watched you climb into a car worth more than my entire pack's territory, surrounded by guards like some precious commodity. You sold yourself, Sofia. And now you're back to finish the job."

Something inside me cracks. Not my heart—that broke days ago. Something deeper. The foundation I've been standing on since I was sixteen years old.

"You think I'm a spy," I say slowly. Quietly. "You think I came here to hurt you."

"I know you did." But his voice wavers. His thumb moves against my pulse—a caress he doesn't seem aware of making. "That speed. That strength. Omegas don't move like that. Don't fight like that. You're trained. Professional. And that scent—" He inhales sharply, his eyes darkening. "That fucking scent is designed to make me weak."

I stare at him. At this stranger wearing my mate's face.

"Let me go," I whisper.

He doesn't move. His chest heaves against mine, and I can feel his wolf battering at his control, howling in anguish at what his human half is doing.

"Let. Me. Go."

This time, something in my voice makes him flinch. He releases me like I've burned him, stumbling back two steps.

I straighten slowly. My throat aches where his hand was. My arm throbs where the rogue's claws caught me. But none of it compares to the hollow space opening up in my chest.

"You're right," I hear myself say. "I should have stayed away."

I walk past him. He doesn't try to stop me.

Behind me, I hear him punch the wall—once, twice, the sound of brick cracking. I hear him curse, low and vicious. I hear his wolf howl.

I don't look back.

---

The Omega quarters are silent when I return. I close the door, lock it, and stand in the darkness for a long moment.

Then I reach for the mind-link I've kept carefully shuttered for ten years.

*Langston.*

The response is immediate. My brother's presence floods the connection—warm, protective, edged with concern.

*Sofia? What's wrong?*

*It's over.* I keep my mental voice steady. Clinical. *The ten-year pact is dead. I'm coming home.*

Silence. Then: *What happened?*

*It doesn't matter.* And it doesn't. Not anymore. *Initiate Protocol Seven. I want every shell company, every anonymous account, every silent partnership withdrawn. Freeze the assets. Cut the supply chains. I want it done quietly, but I want it done now.*

*Sofia—*

*Now, Langston.*

Another pause. Then: *Consider it done. I'll have the car there in forty-eight hours.*

*Thank you.*

I sever the link before he can ask more questions. Before the careful control in my voice can crack.

Then I sit on the edge of the narrow bed and stare at my hands. At the raw knuckles, the rogue's claw marks still healing on my forearm, the calluses from scrubbing marble floors.

Ten years. Ten years of sacrifice, of hiding, of building an empire in the shadows and laying it at his feet like an offering.

And he thinks I'm a spy.

Something cold and sharp settles in my chest. Not grief. Not anymore.

This is something else entirely.

This is the moment Sofia Sanders—the girl who loved a boy enough to give up everything—finally dies.

And in her place, the Lycan Princess begins to wake.

I found it by accident.

I wasn't snooping. I was simply returning a ledger to the administrative wing when I passed the open door of Arian's private vault—and stopped.

Victoria was inside.

She didn't see me. Her back was turned, her manicured hands rifling through documents with the focused urgency of someone who didn't trust the ground beneath her feet. Financial records, property deeds, transfer statements—she fanned through them with practiced efficiency, searching for something to anchor herself to.

Then she went still.

I watched her pull out a frame. Even from the doorway, I recognized it. The clean lines of the sketch, the careful notation of measurements along the margin, the tiny initials pressed into the bottom corner—AE—in handwriting I had memorized at sixteen.

He'd kept it. Framed it.

Something moved across Victoria's face. I couldn't name it exactly—it was too fast, too layered. But I saw her hands tighten on the frame, and I saw the moment her expression hardened into something that scared me more than rage would have.

Calculation.

I stepped back before she could turn around. Walked away quietly, the way I'd learned to walk through this pack. Like I was already invisible.

But my wolf was very, very awake.

---

She came to me two days later.

The pack square was busy at midday—Omegas running errands, warriors rotating shifts, a cluster of pups chasing each other around the stone fountain. Public enough to be a performance. Private enough that no one would look too closely.

Victoria crossed the square in a cream-colored wrap dress, her smile already arranged, her diamond pendant catching the sun like a weapon.

"Sofia." She said my name the way you'd say a word in a language you found beneath you. "I've been looking for you."

I set down the bundle of folded linens I was carrying. "Luna Victoria."

"Please." She waved a dismissive hand. "We're past formality, aren't we? After everything." She tilted her head, all gentle concern. "I want to apologize for how things started between us. I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Around us, a few pack members had slowed their pace. Watching.

"I may have been… hasty," she continued, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry, "in assuming the worst about you. You're clearly just a lost omega who needed a safe place. And whatever misunderstanding brought you here—" she gestured vaguely, dismissively, "—it's forgiven."

I said nothing.

She smiled wider. "Which is why I'd like to invite you to the Annual Gala. This Saturday. As my personal guest." A soft laugh, directed at the gathering audience. "Even omegas deserve a beautiful evening, don't they?"

The silence stretched.

Every rational instinct I had mapped the trap in under three seconds. The public setting. The manufactured generosity. The audience she'd carefully ensured would witness her magnanimity—and, later, whatever came next.

She wanted me where she could control the exit.

I looked at her. Directly. Long enough to watch the smallest flicker of unease cross her composed face.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "I'll be there."

Her smile returned, brilliant and sharp. "Wonderful."

She walked away without looking back. Her heels clicked against the stone in perfect, measured rhythm.

I picked up my linens and went back to work.

---

That evening, I spread the gown across my narrow bed.

The tear was long and deliberate—Victoria's doing, on the gravel outside the territory border, the first day I arrived. The silk had frayed at the edges where it had been wrenched apart, and the hem bore a ghost of a stain that would never fully lift.

I threaded my needle with silver thread.

I didn't try to hide the damage. That wasn't the point. I sewed the torn edges back together with small, careful stitches—not to erase the scar, but to acknowledge it. To say: *this happened, and I am still here.*

Stitch by stitch, in the silence of the Omega quarters, I repaired what had been broken.

My wolf watched from somewhere deep and still inside my chest. Not grieving anymore. Not hopeful either.

Just waiting.

I had come to this pack looking for an answer. I had found one—just not the answer I'd once prayed for. The boy who had pressed this design into being with trembling, devoted hands at seventeen had become a man who called me a spy and left bruises on my throat.

The gala would be the last time I wore this dress.

I wanted him to see it. To see the stitched scar running along the seam and know what it meant. To understand—even for one moment before the end—exactly what he had torn.

And somewhere across the pack grounds, I knew, Victoria was acquiring something far more lethal than thread.

Let her.

I had made my call to Langston. Protocol Seven was already in motion, quiet as a tide pulling back from shore—invisibly, irrevocably, taking everything beneath it.

Saturday was not her stage.

It was mine.